


Sherlock Holmes and The Bat Man

by Broba



Category: Batman (Comics), Sherlock (TV)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-02-22
Updated: 2012-02-22
Packaged: 2017-10-31 14:35:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,875
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/345176
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Broba/pseuds/Broba
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>I had bats on the brain, and I was feeling somewhat dejected- no comments, no messages, nothing. I decided to branch out a little, why not give another fandom a try? I saw a prompt for Sherlock\Batman and I thought, here would be an intriguing thing.</p>
<p>I made an effort to try and "structure" the story, and I am quite pleased how it came out. The twist at the end tickled me pink.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. prolog

The flat at Baker Street hadn't seen quite so much excitement in years, mused Mrs Hudson, as she let the inspector in. He flashed a warrant at her but she had come to think of such things as just little niceties, and pointed up the stairs saying,  
"He's in, he's been in all night."  
"I'll just bet he has. And with a cast iron alibi no doubt."  
"Well that nice doctor Watson is there of course,"  
"Oh of course," Lestrade didn't bother to disguise the sarcasm, he was in no mood. He hammered on the door violently until it was opened enough to show the rounded face of Watson, looking concerned as ever.  
"What is-"  
"Shut up and let me in, or it's a cell for the night. Obstructing police business."  
"I don't think-"  
"Now!"  
  
Lestrade barged in and strode across the lounge. Holmes was reclining on the couch, he appeared to be engrossed in a sheet of paper that he was folding into some kind of abstract origami shape. The shadow of Lestrade fell over him but he barely registered, flicking his eyes up then down again.  
  
"Paper craft eh? That's a new one for you Holmes."  
"It's just to pass the time. I needed some way to spend the afternoon."  
"Well allow me to help. Here, have this."  
  
He tossed a scrap of paper onto Holmes' chest, he looked down, squinting, and then examined it more closely. A dense weave, made to resemble parchment, frayed edges were cut with- a paper knife? A letter opener. No scissors. He sniffed it thoughtfully and detected only a neutral paper scent. He turned it over, there was no writing on the paper but a design in bold black ink. Looking closer, he could see it was the patina of an India ink, not a water based ink absorbed into the fibres. It looked for all the world like a stylised bat.  
  
"Am I supposed to offer you an artistic criticism perhaps?"  
"I put up with a lot from you Holmes. You get results, and I'm not denying that, but there are limits. Leaving your little calling card behind after beating up criminals goes way beyond them."  
"Ah, this would be the work of the infamous Bat Man then."  
"As you bloody well know, and I'm here to ask you, nicely, to just stop it!"  
"Still assuming it's me? Well I must say I'm flattered, but I am really not the one responsible. You said that criminals had been assaulted?"  
"Yes,"  
"Not, 'suspected criminals' or 'unknown persons,' you were able to verify that once again the Bat Man has only acted against perpetrators of crime."  
"Now listen Holmes, I've been a copper for a long time and there's nothing I would like more then to see some of the scum out there get what's coming, but a good copper knows that the rules are there for a reason. They don't just protect the guilty, they protect us too, from ourselves. You're different though, you don't think any rules apply to you at all."  
"That doesn't mean I feel the need to dress up and flounce about all night. I do have more important things to be doing with my time."  
  
Lestrade's eyebrows shot up in amusement at that, and he glanced around at Watson, who shrugged sheepishly. They both knew Holmes had nothing better to do with his time in the least except spend all night on his damnable blog. Behind them, Watson switched on the television and settled into his favourite armchair.  
  
"Holmes, I am going to ask you one last time. Are you the Bat Man."  
"Do you think you can look into my eyes and see if I'm telling the truth?" Holmes sat bolt upright, staring up at Lestrade, "take a good long look. I'm not the Bat Man."  
"He's not kidding," said Watson softly, "he really isn't."  
"Well what a surprise, here comes the good doctor to stick his bloody oar in!"  
"No I mean it," said Watson pointing, "the Bat Man is on the news, right now. They found him."  
  
Lestrade practically ran to the television, the nine o'clock news was leading with a live report where police units were gathering around a building on the outskirts of London, where apparently the Bat Man himself had finally been tracked down after a short chase. Lights from the news van cameras played over the shabby, nondescript building, a hollow shell that had once been a civic office. Suddenly there was a shout and the camera panned upwards, a spotlight picked out a lone figure atop the roof. There could be no doubt, from the scalloped cloak to the chitinous body armour, it was him- the Bat Man. Suddenly there was a blur of motion, he seemed to point something into the air and his arm jerked as though he had fired a weapon, then without warning he was hoisted up and away from view. Lestrade cursed and slapped a fist into his hand.  
  
"You won't get him you know," came the low mocking voice from the next room.  
"And why is that?" Lestrade snarled back at him, "Do tell!"  
"Because," Holmes sat up, his wrists resting lightly on his knees, Watson knew when Holmes was excited by something, his eyes practically glowed, "you haven't asked me for help yet."


	2. act i

Holmes insisted on being allowed into the building, despite Lestrade's insistence that it was a crime scene. Watson was close at hand, he didn't know what to make of it but damned if he was going to let Holmes wander off alone as the man tended to at times. Holmes walked briskly past the waiting cameras and police tape, earning himself a brief cameo on a later news bulletin, and entered the building. Inside, the shabbiness of the exterior was amplified tenfold, the place had been gutted by fire decades before and was a hollow shell. Only the occasional roofbeam showed where additional floors would once have been, and the floor was covered in scree and detritus.  
  
Holmes would occasionally pick through bits of rubbish on the floor using the tip of a pencil, to Watson's amusement, though if there was some deeper truth being deduced Holmes was silent on the matter. Watson walked up amiably behind him and patted him on the shoulder.  
  
"Well it might just be my crude, untrained opinion, but I don't think this place is doing much for house prices around here."  
"John, look around you," Watson groaned inwardly, he knew what was coming, "what do you see?"  
"If you've spotted something, why don't you just come out and say so?"  
Holmes grinned wryly, "I might have missed some vital detail which you will catch for me."  
"Are we really expecting that?" Watson shoved his hands into his pockets, keeping his cane balanced in the crook of an elbow, and looked around slowly. "I see a burned out wreck of a building, shuttered windows, crap everywhere, it's... it's nothing really."  
"Indeed. So why did the Bat Man race over here, apparently leaping from rooftop to rooftop if the stories are the be believed, when he was being chased by three police cars?"  
"What do you mean?"  
"Well it's hardly a good bolt hole, is it? And as soon as the place was surrounded, he left."  
"I wouldn't like to stay here either."  
"The Bat Man wanted this place to be found, he wasn't running away he was leading the police here- to this specific building- and he didn't leave until he knew they had it surrounded."  
"Now that's a bit of a stretch isn't it? Sherlock?"  
  
Holmes was already away, walking around the open space in the middle and alternately watching the floor and the high ceiling above. The forensics teams were working their way around the walls at first, they hadn't reached the middle. Holmes cried out and Watson jogged painfully over to him, his hand already fastening around what he had under his coat.  
  
"Holmes!"  
"Get the inspector, he'll want to know about this!"  
"What is it?"  
"A body!"  
  
There wasn't much left, at a casual glance and in the semi darkness there was little to see of it but when Holmes indicated the line of a femur suddenly it clicked into place, like an optical illusion that only works when you look at it just so. The corpse had been burned very badly, and left barely covered by newspapers, leaves, whatever had been lying around. Holmes was crouched next to it deep in though, a charred blackened skeleton left in the middle of nowhere- left until the Bat Man had led them right to it.  
  
The forensics teem carefully went over every detail, Sherlock had to wait impatiently for them to be finished taking photographs before he was allowed as close as he wanted to get. He carefully examined the mottled dusty surface of the bones.  
  
"So. We assume that death was caused by burning, yes doctor?"  
"I'd have to say so. Even if this-" Watson paused and glanced at the hips, noting the width of the iliac fosa, "-man were not dead before he was set on fire, the burns would have been lethal."  
"The first question is, where was the murder committed?"  
"Not here obviously, there's no scorching on the floor, no sign of ashes, the body was dumped here."  
"Very good Watson, very good. Our killer or killers needed a place to stash a body, and they knew of an abandoned old office where nobody ever goes."  
"Nobody except the Bat Man apparently. He would have to be suspect number one."  
"Would he now?"  
"Except to you of course,"  
"That's right. The Bat Man is methodical and precise, he always arranges things so that a message is left behind him. He wants us to know that he was the one who brought us here, he wants us to follow the trail. Not the behaviour of someone trying to cover something up."  
"You're talking about someone who dresses up like a giant bat Sherlock, he can hardly be called stable."  
Holmes stood, turning suddenly to face Watson. "Stable? You mean, sane?"  
"Well, yes."  
"And what is the sane response to what we see here now? What does a sane man do?"  
"Well, call the police I suppose."  
"They're here, aren't they?"  
"It's quite an extreme way to get attention."  
"We are where we are, and things are moving according to someone's plan. Nothing about this strikes me as being anything less then well considered and logical."  
  
One of the forensics team called out to them and Holmes immediately crouched down to look. The man had been examining the forearm of the body, and there was something lodged under the hand, it was stained and wrinkled but still recognisable.  
  
"Put there after death, a sign for whoever finds the body. The signature on the painting, you might say," Holmes mused. Watson craned his neck to look.  
"What is it?"  
  
Holmes borrowed a tweezers from the forensics man and with a little effort pulled the little white square of card free, it was sticky with ichor but entirely unburned. As he turned it to the light Watson could see clearly that it was a playing card- a joker.  
  
"The Bat Man isn't the only one who signs his work," said Sherlock.


	3. act ii

John sat back in the expansive seat of the taxi and thought over the evening. Certainly the sight of the withered burned skeleton had been grim but what gave him a shiver was remembering the look on Lestrade's face when they had shown him the joker card. Holmes picked up on it immediately and needled him for information. Lestrade had seen that card before- or a card like it. This was not the only murder at which one had been found. There was no link between them and so the murders had not been connected until now. Two bodies had turned up over the previous six months and each had been clutching a card. Holmes had calmly requested the police file notes for the cases, and for once Lestrade had acquiesced without much of a fight. When they pulled up to Baker street Holmes leapt out and instructed him to pay the cabbie, darting upstairs without another word. Watson sighed and groped in his wallet for a crinkled tenner and a few pound coins.  
  
Watson was good enough to prepare a late meal for them both, though his largesse would stretch only to tea with raspberry jam sandwiches and half a chopped apple each. He brought a plate to Holmes who was brooding on the couch, setting it down on his chest and putting the tea mug on the floor where he would be able to reach it.  
  
"Well Sherlock, what do you think?" He knew it would be no good trying to talk about any other subject.  
"John," said Sherlock reflectively, "do you think I'm unstable?"  
"Well that's unexpected." Watson sat down and crunched a piece of apple, "I thought you'd want to discuss the case."  
"You seemed quite certain that the Bat Man is unstable. And Lestrade immediately leapt to the conclusion that I must be the Bat Man."  
"You're drawing conclusions which assume that I think like Lestrade."  
"I didn't mean to be offensive," the plate on his chest shivered as he chuckled under his breath, Watson smiled and bit into his sandwich.  
"For the record, yes you are completely bizarre, but you know that."  
Holmes didn't reply, just staring upward. Watson leant forward in his chair with a sigh, leaning on his knees and staring at his friend for a moment.  
"Sherlock," he said eventually, "does it really matter what I think? You never care what people think."  
"I just asked a question!" Retorted Holmes snappily, "nothing more."  
"Uhm, well fine then," Watson took a sip of tea and frowned, he was used to these little outbursts but sometimes they could seem so random to him. Of course he probably didn't have the insight to perceive the logic behind it all, as Holmes would say.  
  
In the morning the files Holmes had requested were couriered over, with a harsh note from Lestrade advising exactly what would happen if police property were released into the public domain. Holmes took it as a sign that the police were worried that Lestrade was letting him have his own way to this extent and not breathing down his neck. They spread the papers out over the kitchen table and Holmes just stood there staring. Watson went to brew the tea while he worked. Occasionally Holmes would pull a paper closer to examine it, or rearrange the pile he was making. He fingered at his lip constantly, stroking and rubbing at it while he thought. When Watson returned with the tea he took a mug without looking over.  
  
"I'm not sure yet," said Holmes answering the unspoken question, "the details are... strange."  
"Strange how?"  
"The first dead man was a medium-level drug dealer, not exactly a big man but hardly small fry, death by strangulation, the body was dumped in a municipal waste tip. The second had a short criminal record, but was strictly periphery- hardly the criminal underground. Death by injection of detergent directly into the carotid artery. Crammed into an industrial container."  
"Pleasant."  
"Mm. Then we have our third man- killed by immolation. The body is hidden in an unused building, this time some small effort is made to bury him."  
"Who was he?"  
"No idea at the moment, nothing immediately identifiable on the body, and dental records won't be finished for a week at least."  
"What's bothering you so much?"  
"There's no connection! The victims weren't remotely related, they weren't involved in the same activities they never met or shared known acquaintances, they weren't even killed in a remotely similar manner. Each killing looks unrelated to the last in every way, yet there is this one link between them,"  
"The joker card,"  
"Yes. Someone who wants to say, I did this, it's me, look what I can do. But why go to all that trouble if all you're going to do is kill some random people? Why leave the bodies where they might never be found if you want people to see what you have done?"  
"Maybe whoever this 'Joker' is, all they want is to kill people."  
"Just doing it for the thrill you mean? I considered that, but I would have expected there to be some kind of pattern to the method of killing in that case, to exact the maximum pleasure according to the internal logic of the psychopath."  
Watson sat down in his armchair with a heavy creak and gave this some thought. "It's not so unusual. Some people don't need a pattern or logic, all they want to do is set fire to the world."  
"I've not met anyone like that," said Holmes with a soft laugh.  
"I have."  
Holmes looked at him quizzically.  
"Afghanistan, my unit were trying to suppress a small village not fifteen miles from Kandahar. We weren't expecting any trouble, it was a relatively quiet area, but," he shrugged.  
"What happened," asked Holmes softly.  
Watson pursed his lips, pausing for some tea before setting his mug down. He tried to hide it, but Holmes noted the way his fingers curled nervously together in his lap.  
"I was in the medical reserve at the base camp, so I only heard it second hand. There was an intense fire fight, and at one point in the battle the men had a local warlord surrounded in his compound. They were able to storm the place with mortar fire, in the end there were no survivors. But when they were going through the rubble they found bodies everywhere."  
"Who had lived there?"  
"No one," Watson pinched the bridge of his nose and sighed softly, the sound catching in his throat like a groan, "this man had been taking people. Children. Anyone. just taking them and killing them, the bodies were left everywhere. He didn't even care. Afghans, some Americans and apparently they even found a Russian uniform. There wasn't any reason behind it, and there wasn't any pattern either. It was just a mad dog who liked killing, so they put him down."  
"You're saying, we're dealing with someone who does things for no reason?"  
"It's a possibility, isn't it?"  
  
Holmes gave it some thought, the idea seemed to bother him greatly. He was never more content then when dealing with a puzzle and never more enraged then by a puzzle without an answer. He stretched out on the couch and rolled his sleeves up in preparation. Watson rolled his eyes and went to fetch the nicotine patches.  
  
Watson made them lunch later on, and as the hours passed Holmes refused to move from the couch. In the end Watson fetched him a blanket in case he intended to sleep there, eliciting a low "thank you John," but nothing more.  
  
Watson sat patiently reading the afternoon paper, he was enjoying a minestrone soup, mopping it with a slice of bread folded in two, when Holmes suddenly sat bolt upright.  
  
"Sherlock?"  
"John, when we came into the abandoned office, there were no other exits on the ground floor."  
"Well I didn't see any-"  
"There weren't. I looked. That doorway was the only viable way in or out, there was an old fire exit but it had been bricked up, and all the windows were shuttered, you said so."  
"Yes...?"  
"So how did the body get in there?"  
"Well there was the door, Sherlock. Doors work for dead people too you know."  
"The door was locked when we arrived."  
"Yes, the police had to open it."  
"So whoever killed our man had a key to the place."  
"I see, yes that follows. You think it's the owner of the building then?"  
Holmes gave him such a withering look that Watson just shut up and drank his tea.  
"The killer drags in the body- no, he has help, he unlocks the door and his associates bring it in. Then he locks the door after him."  
"If you like," Watson was, in truth, a little peevish and just looked over his paper.  
"But then at some point the Bat Man discovers what has happened, and sees to it that the police are brought to the building. But how does he know there is a body in there?"  
"Well he-" Watson paused, "he was on the roof, did he find a way in through there?"  
"The floor was dry as, well, a bone, no leaks."  
"Peeked through a window somewhere?"  
"John, please. Even if there was an unshuttered window, you'd have to be quite close to see the body."  
"How then?"  
"Simple of course!"  
"I was hoping so..."  
"The locked door is the red herring, no one has a key to it. Not the Bat Man, nor our Joker."  
"How then?"  
"There is another way in! Some entrance, hidden or covered over, which allowed the killer to store the body, the Bat Man to find it, and all without going through the front door!"  
"That's quite a stretch isn't it?"  
Holmes leapt to his feet and held out a hand, "Five pounds."  
"Oh no! I've learned not to gamble against you!"  
"Because I always win!"  
"Because when you don't, you cheat!"  
  
Holmes pulled on his coat and scarf, and tossed Watson's coat to him. There would be no further argument, they were going. They stepped out into the blue London midmorning and huffed steaming breaths as they walked to the main road for a taxi. High above them, crouched next to a rooftop, a black-clad figure watched them go and, under a frightful mask that gave it the visage of a demonic bat-like creature, smiled.  
  
They arrived at the burnt out office and Holmes casually pulled the police tape away from the door and strode in, which only made Watson more nervous. He went around the floor stamping and tapping, rapping on the walls, while Watson stood at the door watching in exasperation.  
"Sherlock, please! Come on!"  
"It's here, John, I know it!"  
"How can you know, isn't it possible that you leapt to a wild and ridiculous conclusion and the best thing is to just admit it, and I promise I won't tease you about it. You can't be right all the time Sherlock!"  
  
But it was too late, because Holmes had found it. A trapdoor, it would once have been set into the corner of an office, the way into the building cellar, but it had been completely covered with dirt. He leant down and pointed his magnifier at the brass pulls on the trapdoor, by the little light of it he could see the small brass rings were worn and clean- used recently. He stuck his fingers in and heaved, while Watson made his way over in a hurry as he saw Holmes expose a wide black gaping hole into the cellars.  
"Five pounds?"  
"Even if I had accepted the bet which, I might add I didn't, this proves nothing! Lots of places have a cellar."  
Holmes gave him a look of triumph and darted into the hole, Watson called after him to wait.  
"Sherlock! It's pitch black down there!"  
"There is a light, there has to be. They'd need one."  
There was a click, and the cellar was suddenly illuminated by a weak but serviceable bulb, which showed a creaking wooden staircase down into a brick walled tunnel under the building. They went down, and saw ancient rooms which might once have been sub-offices or stores perhaps, but now were filled with nothing but flaked paint and dust.  
  
Holmes pointed out clear scuffmarks on the floor where people had passed by recently. At the end of the long tunnel, the bricks had been shattered by pickaxes, and a portal formed into the cellar of the adjoining building.  
"Ah of course, this is what we were really brought here to see," breathed Holmes.  
"Are you sure this is a good idea," whispered Watson, "we could go back and call Lestrade."  
"I have you with me, don't I?" Replied Holmes wryly, "come on."  
  
The next place they entered was far more recently used, unlike the burned out office this was a building that still seemed to have some life in it. Modern wiring snaked over the walls, and the lighting, when Holmes found the switch, was neon. The cellar was more wide open and floored with fresh painted concrete, and in the middle of the space was a table, along with several trestles bearing monitors and computer equipment. The table had only a few scattered papers on it, which Holmes approached with hawk-like intensity, poring over the precious information within.  
"John," he breathed, "it seems that there is a plan after all."  
"What does it say?"  
"Not much. This is just instructions for making devices."  
"What kind of devices?"  
"Explosives."  
  
The computers were dead, and a quick examination revealed the hard drives were long gone. Whatever this space had been used for, the primary goal had been accomplished and they had arrived only in time to see the last few scraps waiting to be cleaned up.  
"We're into something," said Holmes,  "but only just. We're getting into the game as it's coming to the final few moves." He frowned and dropped his fist onto the table, "why now? Why would we be involved now?"  
"Why so serious?" Asked Watson, and Holmes looked up quizzically. Watson raised a hand and pointed to the wall behind them, where they had entered. Those words had been spraypainted in rough black letters. Holmes straightened up and moved closer.  
"Someone," he said slowly, "sees all this as a big joke."


	4. act iii

The hideout had been thoroughly cleared out, there was only evidence that once it had been a hive of activity. Empty cases, places on the ground marked where there had been tables and crates, and the few scraps of paper and litter left behind. Either the people using this place or the Bat Man himself had been through there, and logically both. Holmes made a point of examining everything though, he found something of interest in each tiny detail he uncovered, but Watson couldn't relax until at last he agreed that they could leave. He refused to leave the scene as it had been when they arrived, insisting that his need to take whatever he wanted would lead to far more productive work then keeping things in place for the police.  
  
They holed up in a café for some refreshment after they came back up into daylight once more. Watson stirred fitfully at a mug of coffee and Holmes studiously ignored a small cake. He looped his fingers into a bridge for his chin to lean on and stared into space. Watson couldn't help but be unnerved by his blank stare.  
"Sherlock."  
"John."  
"What are you thinking?"  
"You want me to tell you? All of it?"  
"The edited highlights."  
Holmes heaved a sigh and looked through the scraps of paper he had been arranging and rearranging in front of him for an hour. "It's a plan, I suppose, but what for? Explosives, yes, there's a list of ingredients here, but I just thought there would be something... bigger."  
"Bigger? A bigger bomb?"  
"The quantities. You could make something the size of, say, a grenade."  
"You wouldn't want to be in the room with one."  
"Mm. But all the trouble, all the care and secrecy. This is only a piece of the puzzle. Or I should say, the plot has an explosive element but there is more to it then that."  
"Mm." Watson sipped his drink and stared out of the window boredly.  
"You lied to me before John."  
Watson nearly chocked, "What?"  
"I said I'd never met a killer without some kind of a pattern, you said you had."  
Watson remained silent, he flicked his eyes to meet his friend's eyes, and back out of the window.  
"You said you'd met one near Kandahar, but then you told me that little story about hearing all about it second-hand."  
"Well it's all the same thing,"  
"I don't think so, I think you said something and realised you'd rather not talk about it, so you told a story that's only partly true."  
"Sherlock, I don't want," Watson fiddled with a cheap paper napkin, dabbing it repeatedly into a tiny drop of spilled coffee, and hummed thoughtfully. "No."  
"It's alright," said Holmes softly, but detachedly, "I just wanted to mention it."  
"Mm."  
  
They were interrupted later in the afternoon on their way back to the flat by a call from Lestrade. There had been another attempted killing, but this time the victim was still alive- though from the tone Lestrade took that would not be the case for much longer. They turned the cab around and headed for St. Bart's hospital.  
  
The man had been isolated in a room away from other patients with a police guard on the door, and the pair could hear the sound of screaming and agitation as they approached. The policeman on duty stopped them until Holmes called out for Lestrade angrily and was allowed through. There was a screaming man on the hospital bed being restrained by a nurse while a doctor tried to give him an injection. Watson silently moved around the periphery of the room to the small bank of monitors the man was hooked up to, while Holmes interrogated Lestrade.  
"He was found on the Blackfriars underpass, screaming blue murder. Been like this for at least an hour," said the inspector tersely, "looks like he had been restrained, from the look of his wrists, but he must've managed to get free."  
"Where's the card?"  
Lestrade rolled his eyes and held up a plastic bag containing a playing card, this time stained with flecks of blood, another joker. "He had it on him. I mean literally on him, some sick bastard actually stapled it to his chest, must have been one of those staple guns like you see in offices."  
Holmes took the bag and examined the card, before staring at the screaming man, "What do the doctors think?"  
"Some kind of poison, and if he pulls through- which is a big if- probably permanent heart damage. And take a look at his eyes."  
  
Holmes stalked up to the bed, leaning over carefully to avoid flailing limbs. The man's eyes were dilated to the extent that they were wide black holes rimmed in the slightest rings of blue. The man writhed and shook madly, chattering and screaming, in between gouts of laughter.  
  
Holmes reached out and tugged on the man's hand, extending his arm and receiving a stern reprimand from the doctor, he looked closely for a moment and dropped it, looking up at Watson and nodding. Together they walked outside and Lestrade followed.  
"Well Holmes? What do you make of it."  
"Make of what, inspector?"  
"Come off it smart arse, if you're going to work your magic now's the time."  
"What do the police think."  
"I'm asking you what you think."  
"Is that an official police demand?"  
"I said, I'm asking."  
"I don't have enough information yet, I can't say too much for sure."  
Lestrade grimaced and leaned against the wall, fitting his hands into his pockets and looking suddenly very crumpled. He invited Holmes to try with a vague nod of his head.  
"The man was tied down to a chair, probably with plastic cord or cable ties holding his wrists down. He was poisoned. He managed to get free, probably thanks to the effects of whatever's running through his system, by breaking through a window using the chair."  
Watson whistled lowly, Lestrade stood up. "Assuming that's true," said Lestrade, "it gives us a rough idea of how the murder was intended to be carried out but it doesn't tell us who or why."  
"That's coming. I told you I don't have all the information yet. I need more time."  
"Sure!" Called Lestrade after them, Holmes was already striding away at speed, "we've got all the time in the bloody world!"  
Holmes turned and smiled thinly back at the inspector, "You'll find that the man is a plumber or gas fitter, once you've established who he works for do let me know."  
  
They headed back to Baker street. Holmes looked positively smug, Watson just stared straight ahead, refusing to ask. He knew that Holmes was just waiting for him to ask. It was a minor victory, but making the man wait was some small way for Watson to try to keep some semblance of balance in the relationship. They made their way up the stairs and when they got in, Holmes practically bounced across the floor to the kitchen table, sitting down to gloat over his pages of evidence. Watson put the kettle on, silently, and waited. Eventually it became too much for Holmes to bear, and he called out in a studied, bored voice.  
"Aren't you going to ask me how I knew all that?"  
"Deduced, you mean?"  
"Deduced all that?"  
"All right Sherlock," Watson sat down in his armchair with a sandwich, "I'm listening."  
Holmes smiled and closed his eyes, in his mind he was back in the room, his attention flitting like a hummingbird from detail to detail, lapping up the sweet nectar of information.  
  
The man had a mark on the upper side of his wrist, his arms had been tied down to the arms of a chair, when he had pulled against his bonds they had cut against the upper surface of his wrists. Holmes noted a train-track pattern to the markings left behind such as much be caused by the ridged of cable tie plastic. The man had curious fingers, blunt with nails bitten down almost to nubs, his nails had been irritated by the occasional metal splinters common to workers cutting or sawing metal. A greenish tint in the webbing between his fingers- he had spent a lot of time holding copper. The copper piping used principally for plumbing.  
  
He'd broken out of a window that was for sure, there were still glass splinters evident on his arms, in his hair, a few tiny flecks of blood, but he had been protected from the worst of it because he had used an implement to break the window, the first heavy object to be found would have been the very chair he had been bound to.  
  
Holmes remembered the man's eyes well, they had been terrifyingly black, dilated far beyond normal. His unsettling appearance had probably distracted Lestrade from noticing he had almost no eyebrows, or eyelashes. He had been caught in the flash of a small explosion, it hadn't hurt him but it hadn't been intended to- the bang had spread the poison into the air and tainted him. He had breathed it in instinctively, that had to be it. The playing card had been stapled into his skin not just for cruelty, but to ensure that the blast didn't blow it off him. The Joker had bound this man up in an empty room and left him to die. Not to die- when he wanted to kill someone he just did it, sadistically perhaps but very thoroughly, he had done something new. Maybe he wanted to see what his poison would do.  
  
Holmes explained it all, steepling his fingers in front of his lips, and opened his eyes when he was finished. Watson raised his eyebrows and had to concede that he was impressed with a slow nod.  
"Of course we need to wait and see what exactly the poison is, I will assume Lestrade is quick enough to ask that they rush the blood tests."  
"Oh," said Watson casually, "atropine."  
  
Holmes pursed his lips and let out a breath through his nose slowly. Watson made a point of chewing thoughtfully on his sandwich and picked up the paper, commenting on the news that a minor celebrity had been photographed falling out of a nightclub. Watson went quiet and folded the paper away before Holmes' stare ate through it.  
"Atropine, it's a stimulant used to increase the heart rate, it suppresses the functions of the vagus nerve and sympathetic nervous system. It's also used in ophthalmology because it causes the eyes to dilate, and an overdose leads to hallucinations, delirium... well, you saw."  
"Very good, John, I sometimes forget how skilled you really are."  
"Well I don't like to brag,"  
"Indeed."  
"No one likes a show-off, after all."  
"Yes,"  
"And I wouldn't dream of rubbing your nose in it or anything."  
"Yes, John." Holmes was practically pouting.  
"Also, I read the medical chart, and atropine was the first thing they considered. They had already started dosing him with pilocarpine."  
Holmes just stared. Watson was grinning around his sandwich.  
  
By the next day, Holmes had the last piece of the puzzle he needed. It came when Lestrade called in the morning to announce that, yes, the man had worked as a fitter for a plumbing company. Holmes glanced at John while he snapped his fingers for a pen, scribbling across the back of a coaster as Lestrade talked. The man had been identified as Roger Gartmore, and he had been hired in the last six months by a company called Donner & Bell. Holmes thanked him quietly and clicked off his phone.  
"Well?" Watson asked, slouching over to him.  
"I think we need to do a little investigating of our own John. Gartmore might have been some random victim, but there must have been some reason why he was convenient."  
"He might have done a job for our man?"  
"You mean, he repaired Jokers' toilet and got a bomb in the face for his trouble?"  
"Well what's your big idea then?"  
Holmes grinned, "I did some research last night."  
  
He tore the coaster in half, rearranging the two pieces so that they read "BELL" and on the other side "DONNER."  
"Look."  
"Yes?"  
"Bell and Donner, it's a pun. Belladonna, also know as?"  
"Deadly Nightshade."  
"The sap of which used to be used by women to make their eyes seem larger. Guess what it can be distilled into?"  
"Atropine."  
Holmes grinned. "Gartmore wasn't just doing a quick job for Joker, he worked for him."  
  
Already Holmes was on his phone, tapping away with his thumb. He established quickly that Donner & Bell had been formed as a company less then a year ago, a small plumbing concern which accepted jobs in and around central London. Little surprise that the given address of the office was a short distance from the Blackfriar underpass.  
  
They went there, the place was clearly abandoned. The office had been a two-story lock-up affair, and one of the windows facing into the back alley had been smashed. Holmes was gratified to see that an office chair was resting nearby, where it had been tossed. The office itself looked like a hurrican had hit, what few pieces of furniture left had been sodden by rain from the broken window, and there were bits of paper scattered about. Anything of value had either been taken before Gartmore had escaped from the office in a mad frenzy, or else thieves had picked it over opportunistically since. The place was near enough to a major road junction that a loud noise would have been drowned out by the bustle and traffic of central London. In an adjoining room they found a cardboard box, filled with short lengths of copper piping no longer then a hand span.  
"What are those," asked Watson, his eyes roving around the room warily.  
"Fill one with a little explosive, and perhaps a preparation of concentrated atropine prepared in such a way that it can be inhaled, like a fine powder. What do you have?"  
"Basically," mused Watson, "a madness grenade."  
"We'll need a cab, it's time to bring in Lestrade. We'll need to look into all the locations this company has serviced in the last few months."  
  
Watson nodded and turned to leave the room, pausing at the window. He peeked out, staring up into the miserable gathering clouds.  
"Looks like rain," he commented, pulling up his collar and stepping outside, "come on then."  
  
That night they conferred over dinner, they had ordered in a meal for once, Holmes was feeling in the mood for a treat. They both knew that this was the crack in the ice that signalled the big break up. Holmes had more then enough pieces now, and the information was flowing in now that Lestrade had a direction to go on. Holmes could not be stopped, he was closing in on the prey and soon they would have the Joker himself and not just more of his cards. When they were finished, and the remains of the meal cleared away, it was Watson's turn to put the bins out. He pulled the rubbish bags from the kitchen bin and the separate recycling bins and trudged downstairs with them. It was a bothersome job, but the rota Holmes had prepared was sacrosanct. As he walked the short way down the street to the bins he turned and saw something that made his blood run cold.  
  
Across from the flat a grubby looking transit van, the sort of nondescript vehicle that can be seen everywhere in and around London. He could clearly make out lettering on the side, though part of the legend had been obscured by dirt. He could read the words  "& BELL" clearly. He glanced up to where the light was on in their flat, and without even pausing to cry out he dropped the bags and ran back. There was a noise like a great bass drum banging once, and he saw their window explode outwards, their curtains flapping out like banners in a powerful wind.


	5. act iv, and epilog

Sherlock Holmes opened his eyes to a taupe blur that resolved into the rope-like pattern of Watson's jumper. His fried was hovering over him staring at a thermometer with a look of concerned concentration. Holmes said nothing, he glanced over Watson's face. He rarely got to see his friend actually be a doctor, it was oddly interesting to see Watson at work as a professional rather then as his unofficial assistant and officially the only person who would be around him. Watson shook the thermometer and muttered under his breath, lifting Holmes' wrist and taking a pulse.  
"Quite alive, I assure you," croaked Holmes, his throat felt barren and dry.  
"Don't try to talk idiot," replied Watson, putting a hand on his chest to forestall Holmes trying to rise, "the atropine reduces your ability to salivate, give it a little time."  
Holmes nodded and moved his tongue around in his mouth experimentally. He glanced around the room; there had clearly been an explosion, it came from close by the door. His books had survived, but small items and crockery had been blasted around the room and the windows were gone. It was as he had surmised, the explosives that Joker were brewing were designed to spread a mist of a drug rapidly and widely rather then blow things up.  
"You're going to be all right," continued John, "though you have a perforated eardrum I think, so don't bother listening to anything on your left side. A few cuts and bruises, nothing life-threatening."  
"Mm."  
"I spent a little time trying to think about the first questions you'll want answering," John produced a notebook and leafed through a page, "I did my best so don't give me any looks. Right. You were unconscious for about... two hours, give or take. Not long. It looks like one of our favourite plumbers did this, I saw their van outside when I was doing the bins, someone pushed past me as I was running back in and," he took a deep breath, anticipating the withering look he was about to get, "I didn't get a good look, I'm sorry but I had other things on my mind."  
"Mm _hmm_."  
"Yes yes. Don't worry, they're long gone and I've been keeping an eye out," Watson licked his lip briefly and looked down at his notes, and Holmes realised he was hiding something, "the police are going to be closing in on Joker by now, the arrest will probably be on the morning news, so it looks like we can put this case to rest."  
  
Holmes croaked again, and Watson could feel the strength starting to come back to him, he allowed his patient a few sips of water.  
"John,"  
"Easy now, take it slowly,"  
"Overdose?"  
"Yes, but unlike poor Gartmore you were in the hands of a capable doctor from the first onset of symptoms," he smiled thinly, "if I say so myself."  
"You didn't call an ambulance,"  
"Well, you would have thrown a tantrum if you'd woken up to find out you weren't first to look at your own crime scene."  
Holmes stared narrowly at Watson, "antidote?"  
"Mhmm, pilocarpine."  
"Where from?"  
"I had a small supply to hand in my kit."  
"No you didn't," Holmes said softly, "where did you get it?"  
  
When Watson charged into the flat he had found his friend curled up on the couch clutching at his ears, one of which was bleeding. He had given him a once-over and made him comfortable. He could see the signs of atropine poisoning immediately. Holmes' eyes were black discs without any sign of iris and his heart rate was tremendous. Watson immediately went to his phone and was calling the emergency services when he felt a heavy hand on his shoulder.  
  
The Bat Man stood behind him and slowly shook his head. Watson put the phone down, suddenly quite afraid. The Bat Man reached into a compartment of his belt, which appeared to hold various tools and devices, and passed him a medical injector pen.  
"Pilocarpine- now." The man's voice was modulated by some kind of artificial harmonizer at his throat, it came out almost impossibly low and gruff. John didn't hesitate, but turned to inject Holmes, whispering a faint prayer under his breath as he did.  
"Joker did this," stuttered Watson.  
"Yes, because he knows you're the ones who have been leading me to him."  
"What are you going to do?"  
"Stop him."  
"You wanted Sherlock to be a part of this, didn't you?"  
"I needed the best."  
"You could have got someone killed!"  
"People have already died, those men Joker killed were working for me. I couldn't rely on anyone else."  
"Working for you?" He frowned, slowly rising to his feet. He was very aware that his overcoat, and his gun, were hanging over the arm of a chair that might just- just - be in reach if he leaped.  
"All of them owed me a favour, so I called it in. But this case needed a detective."  
"Well you got what you wanted!"  
"I didn't want Sherlock to get hurt, I've been watching out for you two. I'm sorry that I didn't get a chance to stop this, but you can rest assured," the Bat Man grinned horribly, "the man who did it, now wishes he hadn't. There will be no more attempts like this."  
"So what are we supposed to do now?"  
"Look after your friend. And John..."  
"Yes?"  
"He will have questions, you can tell him anything you like. But if you tell him about me, he will try to find me."  
"He will find you,"  
"At the moment you are two amateurs living in a flat, John. You can go on like that, and have happy lives. Or you can let Sherlock Holmes know about a mystery he won't be able to stay out of."  
"I see."  
"I'm not telling you what to do, but you wouldn't be helping him by telling him."  
"You can answer his questions yourself,"  
The Bat Man raised a finger and shook it in the air, with a wry smile. No.  
  
John launched himself to the side, going for his jacket, and rolled over with it in his arms. He readred up on his knees already aiming, but the room was empty. The windows, ragged holes into the night, let in a night air and the curtains fluttered. The Bat Man was gone.  
  
"John," said Holmes, "what aren't you telling me?"  
"I don't think it matters, you're still weak. You have been hallucinating madly for the last hour, you need rest or you're going to wind up seriously hurt."  
"John,"  
"Doctor's orders," Watson said firmly, pressing him down onto the couch with a hand, "no arguing. I'll make the tea."  
While Watson busied himself in the tiny kitchen Holmes looked up at the ceiling and composed his thoughts.  
"You said I was hallucinating?"  
"Yes,"  
"I don't remember any of it."  
"You were talking the whole time, mostly nonsense."  
"What was I saying?"  
"Well funnily enough, you just kept asking me about that time near Kandahar. You wanted the full story."  
"It has been bothering me."  
  
Watson returned and sat down, pulling the armchair next to the couch so that he could help Holmes drink.  
"The story wasn't a lie, it all really did happen. There's just more to it."  
"You don't have to..."  
"Yeah, I probably should. I was in the team that entered the compound, we were expecting casualties. Mortar fire had taken out most of the walls along one side and we pretty much just walked in, there was no return fire." Watson paused.  
"What did you find there?"  
"Bodies, like I said. Lots of bodies. We found the warlord himself, he had survived. Broken legs, he had fallen from a top floor balcony onto a tiled floor."  
"Ouch."  
"Mm. We evacuated, he was the only survivor. I was looking after him when we got back to base. And, he died." Watson stared down into his mug, he could see his own reflection looming in the liquid circle of light inside it.  
"He died."  
"The official report says, death due to shock and blood loss, combined with internal bleeding and a ruptured spleen."  
"Is that the truth?"  
"To be honest Sherlock, I really don't know. I've been over those hours of my life time and time again, and it always looks like I'm going over someone else's recollection. Like I'm looking at a show on the telly."  
"A common enough assertion, among survivors of war zones."  
"I think I did all I could, I know there was never any suggestion of doubt on the part of the army, but still. To this day I wonder if I just let him slip away when I could have... I don't know. Done something."  
"When you first told the story, you said they put a mad dog down."  
"That's what it felt like, sometimes."  
"Well John, I can only say I've never been more relieved that you think I'm stable."  
John grinned and sipped at his tea.  
"So where did you get the pilocarpine?"  
"Sherlock,"  
"Yes?"  
"Ask me in the morning."  
"All right."  
  


E P I L O G

  
The Bat Man returned to his lair, through secretive channels beneath and above the streets of London, he emerged from a hidden tunnel into a well appointed and plushly carpeted office room that served as his study. He pulled the segmented mask and helmet from his head with a sigh of relief and ran armoured fingers through his close cropped hair. Waiting patiently, his butler took the mask and handed him a superb dry Riesling, which he sipped as he sat down in his armchair to work on removing the boots. Out of the high windows, he could see the first greyish glow of dawn across the horizon.  
"A productive evening then, sir?"  
"Oh yes, the balance of the game has changed considerably," his voice was very different without the modulator, very different, "Joker has reached the end game now."  
"I shall take that as good news," the butler made to leave discreetly, when the ornate phone on the desk rang. The butler picked it up automatically and answered the call in a prim voice. The Bat Man looked up and shook his head no, he wasn't available. Whoever it was could wait, at least until he had taken a bath.  
"No I'm sorry," said the butler politely, "Master Moriarty isn't available at present, though I will make sure he returns your call." He set the phone down in it's cradle.  
  
Along the alleyways and byways of London the day people were waking up and the night people were trudging gratefully to bed. The good and the evil of London would mingle and combine as they always had, and where they told tales to each other they would gossip and whisper about a black shape that had been seen cutting through the night in recent time, a Bat Man. The good would look up and wonder at the dark protector above them, reaching down to punish the wicked. The evil, being a cowardly and superstitious lot, would shiver and cower under the lash of their master. The only man in London they owed allegiance to, the one that they feared, the Bat Man.


End file.
